


Over All the Earth

by antheiasilva



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Attachment, Bathtub snuggling and feelings, Forbidden Love, Jedi Code, Jedi Temple, M/M, Maverick Jinn, Mutual Pining, Obi-Wan Kenobi Gets a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Naboo, Qui-Gon Jinn Lives, Qui-Gon's bath salts and eucalyptus, References to the Jedi Council, breaking the Jedi Code, terrible double entendres
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-10-11 22:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17455076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheiasilva/pseuds/antheiasilva
Summary: After Naboo, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan give into feelings that should never exist between them. What will they risk to be together?-He isn’t sure what lets him dare to brush his lips against Qui-Gon's in that moment, but he does.His Master's lips are dry and soft. His mustache tickles.Time stops.Then Qui-Gon’s lips part and there is heat, pressure, and a low growl.So begins their warm, dark slide into oblivion.





	1. Prologue

The first night back in the Temple after Naboo, Obi-Wan wakes in terror from a blur of pointed teeth, yellow eyes, and the smell of cauterized flesh.

He stumbles into Qui-Gon's bedroom, shaking and breathless and seeking a heartbeat. He leans over his Master, feels for his breath on his ear, a pulse under his palm. 

Qui-Gon wakes, reaches for him, brushes his cheek with his hand and gives him a small, sad smile. It is too much, too much like _that moment_ and Obi-Wan’s heart clenches. He sinks onto the bed, lies down beside him, wraps his arms around his Master. He presses his forehead against Qui-Gon’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of clean robes, bacta, and tea.

Qui-Gon’s hand touches his cheek, then his chin, tilting his face upwards.

“Obi-Wan.” His name is a slow, deep rumble in Qui-Gon’s chest. He feels as if his own heart vibrates in sympathy. He takes a deeper breath.

His Master's eyes looking up at him in the dark hold a longing he'd never seen before, but he recognizes it. The same feeling has threatened to drown him.

He isn’t sure what lets him dare to brush his lips against Qui-Gon's in that moment, but he does.  
His Master's lips are dry and soft. His moustache tickles. 

Time stops. 

Then Qui-Gon’s lips part and there is heat, pressure, and a low growl. 

So begins their warm, dark slide into oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authorship note: Obi-Wan POV written by antheiasilva. Qui-Gon POV written by _orphan_account_.

_Don't go far off, not even for a day, because—_  
because—I don't know how to say it: a day is long  
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station  
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep. 

_Don't leave me, even for an hour, because_  
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,  
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift  
into me, choking my lost heart. 

_Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;_  
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.  
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest, 

_because in that moment you'll have gone so far_  
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,  
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying? 

—Pablo Neruda

———

There is a rhythm to the waiting, to the walking and meditating and the tea. When he is waiting, Qui-Gon makes tea the way he was taught, so many years ago now, standing beside Dooku, studying and listening, as though it were as crucial to his training as saber form or negotiation techniques. 

To Dooku, it was. Qui-Gon remembers the slender hands floating through the precise motions: choosing the leaves, steeping, pouring. Proper tea takes time to prepare. 

And that is what Qui-Gon Jinn has. Time. Too much. Even an hour becomes unbearable when waiting. How had things moved this quickly—over a decade gone and his life irrevocably changed—when an hour could crawl by like a caterpillar scaling a mountain. 

Leaves. Steep. Pour.

He finds himself choosing the mudleaf brew lately. Qui-Gon himself favors sapir. But the warm, spicy scent is comforting, reminiscent of soft conversations and the easy laughter of old, private jokes. When he cannot sleep (like tonight), he sits in his darkened quarters with a cup of mudleaf, letting the steam curl around his face, breathing in hope. 

Of course, there are myriad reasons a Jedi can lose contact with the Temple while on assignment. Qui-Gon knows that. He shouldn’t _expect_ messages from Obi-Wan to begin with; his Padawan is a Knight now, and needs to, is _required_ to, assert his independence. Their time is over.

Although Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship lasted longer than most, it still feels like it wasn’t enough. 

They aren’t supposed to cling to each other. For a former Padawan, it can limit personal growth. For a Master, it is plainly selfish and reeks of attachment. 

Qui-Gon finishes the ritual and lowers the lights. He sits in his chair. He holds the cup to his lips, so that his skin grazes the hot ceramic rim, lingers in that barest touch while the mudleaf fills his senses. He closes his eyes and sinks into memory, body and mind entwined in the impressions he has tried, and failed, to bury.

Every day he tries to bury them. 

The Council will not be understanding. He cannot say _but I need this_ , or worse, _but I want this_. Nor can he explain the quiet fire in his blood, let alone defend it. With Obi-Wan silent these last few weeks, the fire has not ebbed. Qui-Gon feels as if his very skin smokes, that everywhere he goes, other Jedi must notice him burning.

He meditates for hours, giving over his emotions to the Force’s cleansing power. _Let me let him go_ , Qui-Gon whispers into the ether, again and again. He knows he can be stronger than these desires—had told Obi-Wan just that, galvanized his resolve against those flashing grey eyes. 

And then gave in. He always gives in.

He has not yet learned how to live without Obi-Wan Kenobi. Obi-Wan is everywhere, because they have gone everywhere together. The fountains, the gardens, the salles, his own private rooms. 

His bed. 

Qui-Gon will turn in his sleep, fitful, and his fingers will alight on a cold pillow, and for a moment, such panic clamors within him— _what if he is dead? What if I never see him again? And the last thing I said…_

He has not meant to be cruel. Never. Not that night of the bitter argument, not when he stood in the center of the Council Chambers and placed his hands on Anakin Skywalker’s shoulders, not when he thought he was dying on that generator floor on Theed, and spoke only of duty, of demanded promises. 

He inhales the mudleaf deeply; warmth spreads through his chest, the way Obi-Wan’s warmth can soothe his darkest uncertainties. He cannot determine when it became so. 

Qui-Gon glances out the window, watches air cars streak past and neon billboards blink. He casts out in the Force, searching. Coruscant is a huge city-planet in a sprawling galaxy. Even with their training bond still intact—

_“We must sever it, Obi-Wan.”_

_“Why must we?”_

—it is impossible to isolate a single point of light among millions. Even if that light is sacred. He is not a stranger to loss. 

He has known enough smothered lights. Obi-Wan will come back, and Qui-Gon will sit him down and tell him he is sorry. They will start again, in their new roles as former Master and former Padawan, and these early missteps of Obi-Wan’s Knighthood will retreat further and further into the past.

He can stop burning. 

He can do that for Obi-Wan, who aspires to join the Council, whose dreams could be ruined by what they have done. 

_I will do what I must._

He cradles the tea cup in his palm, until it is cold.

———

Forty-seven hours in hyperspace feels like an eternity—especially in a starfighter. It will be dark, past midnight when he arrives. The last hour is the longest. His report is long since finished. He has tried to sleep, to meditate, to talk to his astromech. Unsurprisingly, the droid does not have an opinion on broken hearts, real or hypothetical. 

Obi-Wan hasn’t decided which one it is. Sometimes, it feels like both.

Can one feel grief for something that hasn’t happened yet? Obi-Wan wonders. Can someone have a broken heart ahead of time? Sometimes, he thinks basic needs more verb tenses. In Old Corellian, he would be able to say _his heart is probably about to break._

He’s been offworld for five weeks, out of contact with the Council for more than half of that. The reasons are not particularly glamourous or heroic or dire. Peace talks exploded, literally. Rebel insurgents took the capital. He was trapped in hiding with loyalist militia and a few lesser government officials, one of which fortunately had military training and another, even more fortunately, pirate contacts. The mission was long, at times stressful, at times boring. There was rain, and mud, and running and waiting and hiding. He hasn’t heard his name since he left Coruscant: politicians referred to him as _Master Jedi_ ; soldiers called him _Commander_ or simply _Kenobi_. 

Mace Windu called him _Knight Kenobi_ when he finally managed to contact the Temple after they had taken back the city. 

He’s waited his whole life to be called _Knight Kenobi_. 

He nearly begged Mace to tell Qui-Gon he’s alive. Nearly. _Knight_ Kenobi, after all, has no reason to contact Master Jinn. 

The long-range transmission signal cut out just in time.

Early knighthood feels like exile, an exile that he has been fighting since that force-forsaken Council meeting six months ago. His success in the field confirms that he was ready, had been ready for months, maybe even a year. He doesn’t resent Qui-Gon for that. In fact, he wishes they had never met that damned yellow-eyed warrior, not only because he nearly killed his master, but because he stole Qui-Gon from him in a different way. _No need for a trial, there is. The first Sith in a thousand years you have killed. Knighthood the Council grants you._

And that was it. Twelve years of his life came to a skittering halt. Cut off. Like the transmission signal. Like his braid. 

Sometimes, in his darker moods, he thinks of the Sith, bifurcated and falling. 

For once, he doesn’t care what the Council or Qui-Gon think. He wanted more time – he _wants_ more time.

Qui-Gon wants more time too, he can tell. He can see it in the way his blue eyes soften and crinkle at the edges, in his quiet chuckle when Obi-Wan teases him, in the way his half smile breaks across his face like the sun rising.

Across the galaxy people speak of the Jedi as cruel. _Baby stealers_ , they whisper. _Heartless, cold. You’d find more humanity in a protocol droid._

He’s never understood before. He thinks he might now. 

_We must sever it, Obi-Wan._

_Why must we?_

What he doesn’t understand is how his reckless, rule-breaking, custom-eschewing Master can be so kriffing _careful_ all of a sudden. Where was his caution on Malastare, or Troiken, or Tatooine? Since when does Qui-Gon give a shit about the Council or the Code? “The Living Force guides him” — except, apparently, when Obi-Wan’s heart is concerned. 

Maybe he could have given him up as his Master, the way Padawans ought, the way he had been expecting to, preparing to. 

Maybe.

He does not know how to give him up as his lover. Maybe he can’t.

He suspects Qui-Gon cannot give him up either, though that doesn’t seem to be keeping him from trying. 

And failing.

He rather thinks Qui-Gon should have thought of that _before._

He hasn’t decided yet whether to believe Qui-Gon this time. He supposes he will find out soon enough. 

His ship’s computer beeps. Hyperspace is ending. They blink into Coruscant’s upper atmosphere. The lights are nothing but a haze from this height.

Mace Windu is waiting for him in the hangar when he lands. He hops down from the ship and slings his mud-encrusted pack over his shoulder. 

“Welcome back, Knight Kenobi. The Council will be pleased to see you are in one piece,” Mace says smoothly, looking him up and down with raised eyebrows.

“Thank you, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan answers. “I expect they will want me to shower first. I wouldn’t want to tread mud on the Council room floor.” He doesn’t try to hide his sarcasm. He’s too tired.

Mace’s eyebrows shift higher, but he doesn’t respond. Obi-Wan hands him a datapad. “My report.” 

Mace nods. “I look forward to reading it.” His intense gaze softens. “No one expected the peace talks to implode.”

“With respect, Master Windu, I think you mean, _explode_.”

Mace doesn’t blink. “The Order’s resources...”

Obi-Wan doesn’t even try to listen to Mace’s excuses. His mind is already racing ahead. He stares past the Korun Master’s shoulder for a few breaths, nods twice, hmms once and then something between a yawn and a sigh escapes him. Mace stops mid-sentence.

“Alright, Kenobi. Go find your bed. The council will call you when we’ve gone through your report.”

Obi-Wan nods and gives a shaky bow, ignoring Mace’s grumble that sounds suspiciously like “Qui-Gon’s attitude,” before taking off toward the residential wing. His quarters are on the tenth level, but he has no interest in his empty, sterile rooms in the Knights’ billet.

He shows up at Qui-Gon’s door, mud-caked and sweaty. He is holding his breath. Qui-Gon might not approve. He could have commed him. Will Qui-Gon tell him to go to home, to his own quarters—as if they could ever feel like home. He should probably have tried to have a shower, or at least dump his robe and pack in his rooms. Force, he must look a wild lothcat at this point, with his shaggy hair and three weeks growth. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm the buzzing in his veins and the flutter in his gut.

He wonders what kissing Qui-Gon will be like with a beard. He is afraid he won’t get to find out.

_Enough, Padawan. This has gone far enough. It’s not right. It’s not fair to you. I won’t. I can’t. You must see it._

He does. 

He can’t bring himself to care. 

Force, he just wants to _touch him._

He rings the door chime.

———

Qui-Gon is giving up on sleep for the night and crossing to the kitchen to start another pot of tea when he hears the chime. His stomach flips, and he pauses in the grey shadow of the room, frozen. 

Obi-Wan never rings the chime. Why would he? This was his home for twelve years and after his Knighting, Qui-Gon hadn’t changed the security code, because there was so much else to be done and lately, because it has been...easier. 

The chime trills through the silence again, a cheerful sound unaware of its ability to stir ominous dread: it is too late for a casual visitor. Even in the case of an emergency summons, the Council would comm him. But if news...if sensitive news needed to be delivered, a Council Member would ring the chime, no matter the hour. 

Mace had come personally to tell him when Micah died. 

_I would know. He was my Padawan. He is my…_

Another chime, and he cannot linger in the unknown. Qui-Gon walks to the door. His ears buzz; his fingertips are numb. 

_There is Peace._

_There is Peace._

He motions to the door; it slides away. 

“Hello there,” Obi-Wan says softly, standing in the recessed light of the hallway, so bright and whole and mercifully _safe._

His breath catches in his throat. Obi-Wan is not languishing in a cell, or being tortured for information, or victim of that darkest, unnamed fate that still twists in Qui-Gon’s gut. 

Safe, and his mind struggles to accept the reality. He feels stuporous, like his knees will buckle. The Force sings with transcendent Light, Obi-Wan’s rare and unique presence. 

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon responds, not recognizing the coarse whisper as his own. He takes a half-step towards him, while the cold knot of fear melts away and becomes something else. 

The Temple is never asleep. He hears distant movements—other Jedi returning from other missions, docents or restless insomniacs —and he knows anyone could walk by. 

But there is Obi-Wan. And they have made it through, again. He is muddy and his tunics are stained and rumpled, hanging loose on his chest. Qui-Gon can glimpse the dark auburn hair there, and Obi-Wan smiles in a small and hesitant way. 

Obi-Wan does not know if he is wanted. Qui-Gon can tell, because the younger man is not quite looking him in the eye, and the lines of his body are tense. In the Force, he vibrates with uncertainty. 

He seems older, tired, guarded in a way they have never been with each other. Qui-Gon looks past the scruff and mud, the shadows beneath Obi-Wan’s eyes and sees the truth: he has taken an open heart and filled it with doubt. It is unbearable. 

“I’ve just got back.” Obi-Wan explains, then glances at his filthy uniform with a brief, crooked grin. “Obviously.” 

Qui-Gon tries to laugh, but it sputters out like a strangled gasp. “I thought…” He swallows the words and pulls Obi-Wan over the threshold into a fierce embrace before the door has closed. 

He hears Obi-Wan’s pack drop to the floor as he wraps his arms around Qui-Gon’s neck. “I’m alright.” Obi-Wan murmurs against his hammering pulse. “I’m alright, Master.”

Qui-Gon nods and closes his eyes, tears sliding from the corners. He can feel the solid, lean body, inhales the honest and bracing scent, and he shudders, the last of his worry surrendering to relief. He squeezes, lifting the other man’s feet off the floor, needing him closer, closer.  
“Thank the Force,” he utters, and when he can finally put a short distance between them, he brushes his fingers over a layer of red stubble. “A beard, Obi-Wan?” 

Obi-Wan flushes; now he is gazing into Qui-Gon’s eyes. “What do you think of it?”

Qui-Gon has heard this voice more than he has heard the sound of rain. Twelve years, and now, inexplicably, the exacting way Obi-Wan says _‘it’_ , the soft, lilting accent, sends a jolt from his heart to his groin. With a growl, he seizes Obi-Wan’s face in his hands, and claims the waiting lips.

 _Waiting_ for him. Obi-Wan has been waiting for him, for this, as Qui-Gon has waited all these weeks for his return. 

Waiting and wanting and now Qui-Gon cannot kiss him deeply enough. Obi-Wan’s breath is stale, because he could not stop to bathe or sleep before coming to Qui-Gon’s door, because this throbbing in Qui-Gon throbs in Obi-Wan too, endlessly, no matter the consequence. 

They both burn. 

Obi-Wan’s hands are tangled in Qui-Gon’s long hair and he moans into his mouth, erection already insistent. 

Qui-Gon breaks the kiss to wipe tears from bright, yearning eyes. Then he runs his finger reverently along Obi-Wan’s bottom lip. 

“I missed you,” Obi-Wan tells him tentatively, somehow still unsure of Qui-Gon’s intentions, despite the fervor of their reunion. 

But Qui-Gon is sure. His reasons for giving this up, for turning Obi-Wan away, no longer matter. He will list the reasons to keep these kisses and touches, to keep Obi-Wan, a running litany in his head as he shoves Obi-Wan against the wall and drags the dirty robe off by the shoulders. He leans down and unbuckles Obi-Wan’s boots, yanking them off before standing, drinking in the features, so familiar, so new. “I missed you in a way I didn’t think possible.”

Obi-Wan grabs his face this time, and kisses him ferociously, like any moment Qui-Gon will change his mind. 

_“I’ve never felt this way. I’ll never feel this way about anyone but you.”_

_“You say that now, because you are young—“_

_“I say it because it’s the truth. Please. Don’t…”_

_“You should go.”_

Qui-Gon wants to pound the desperation out of Obi-Wan. His cock wants it, remembers the sweet clench that first time, the times after. His hands rake under Obi-Wan’s tunics, caressing firm planes and ghosting over the bulge in his leggings.

Obi-Wan cries out and grips Qui-Gon’s back, their clothed cocks rubbing together. 

Qui-Gon is almost undone by Obi-Wan’s desire. Such wanton enthusiasm from his young and proper Knight. He cups Obi-Wan’s ass in both hands, grinds their erections harder. 

“Yours,” Obi-Wan whispers and rolls his hips. 

There cannot be another thing separating them. Not planets, not tenets, not even fabric. Qui-Gon rips the leggings apart, and then he squeezes full, naked cheeks. 

Obi-Wan laughter is tempered by arousal, and he tears at Qui-Gon’s tunics until they hang in pieces. He strokes over the exposed chest, then lower, past Qui-Gon’s waistband. 

Qui-Gon groans, something primal beating in his blood. He pins Obi-Wan to the wall again, hoisting him up by the ass. Instinctively, Obi-Wan’s legs wind around Qui-Gon’s waist. He has to grab onto Qui-Gon’s wide shoulders for leverage. 

Qui-Gon looks in Obi-Wan’s eyes as he frees his own cock, keeps looking as he spits on his fingers and finds the warm cleft. One, two, three sink inside the place that only he has been. Just him. 

_Yours._

Obi-Wan is impaling himself on the blunt fingers, ankles crossing behind Qui-Gon with each thrust.

Qui-Gon mouths his shoulder, comes away with the taste of dried dirt and sweat. He imagines Obi-Wan out in the field on this last mission, the way his lithe and powerful body must have moved. Qui-Gon’s cock leaks. He licks the mud from a nipple, then sucks while his fingers work to ease open Obi-Wan’s tight hole. 

“‘s good,” Obi-Wan assures him after another minute, thighs trembling. 

Qui-Gon positions Obi-Wan’s ass, tilts his hips and guides his cock to the hot entrance. Obi-Wan has only been taken in bed, and his mouth widens in a silent moan as he sinks onto Qui-Gon from this new angle. 

“Very good,” Qui-Gon chokes out in agreement, mindless from the tight, hot pressure, and he fucks Obi-Wan against the wall, the thuds and cries unmistakable for anyone who might pass on the other side. He doesn’t care. He would fuck Obi-Wan on the front steps of the Temple, if that was the only place he could. He fucks him to feed the burning, because Obi-Wan is alive and resilient and beautiful and wants him. 

Qui-Gon waits until Obi-Wan is seated on him again and presses even further, Obi-Wan panting and trembling as his body spreads to accommodate the cock. 

Obi-Wan’s nails dig into his shoulders, but once he’s adjusted, he keeps riding Qui-Gon. 

The Force does not, as the Council warns, recoil from this, the attachment. Qui-Gon has followed its currents as long as he can recall, and has never felt so attuned to the grace and Light as he does now, connected to Obi-Wan in every way, kissing him and running his fingers through short, damp hair. 

The tip of Obi-Wan’s erection brushes against Qui-Gon’s stomach. Qui-Gon curls his fingers around the length, sliding up and down as he continues to drive into warmth, sensing the incipient unfurling of orgasm in Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon is at the precipice too, but he wants it to last a few moments more. It takes enormous restraint to slide out of Obi-Wan and release the hot cock from his hand.

Obi-Wan makes a bereft noise of protest. Qui-Gon leans into his forehead, and just breathes, their lurid position becoming another embrace. Obi-Wan relaxes, nuzzling his nose and smiling. His beard scrapes and catches in Qui-Gon’s beard, a new sensation for them both. 

“So…” Obi-Wan says huskily, eyes shining, “You like the beard, then?”

It is such an _Obi-Wan_ thing to say: the way he jokes in the middle of blaster fire, so will he tease Qui-Gon while his ass is bare and his legs spread. Before, Qui-Gon would chuckle or roll his eyes in response. Now, he pushes his rigid cock back inside Obi-Wan, watches the cheeky expression twist into explicit shock and pleasure. He thrusts hard, mud from Obi-Wan’s back leaving streaks on the wall.

Obi-Wan is not going to last. His eyes are half-lidded as he takes his weight on Qui-Gon’s cock.

The training bond, which should not still exist, is suffused with trust, with other emotions which should never exist between them. He had let Obi-Wan _leave_ for the damned mission thinking he didn’t want….

But he wants. He wants the wild fire and the soft flame and the mudleaf and not waking up alone and he wants to see where they can go if Qui-Gon just _lets go_ of the worry and sees that Obi-Wan is right here, and there is a word for this, there is a word for what they have and one of the ways this word is spoken is just like this, just by rocking sweetly and firmly into Obi-Wan’s body. 

He barely touches his fingers to the head of Obi-Wan’s cock when suddenly Obi-Wan comes with a broken cry, his legs tightening around Qui-Gon’s waist as his muscles spasm around Qui-Gon’s buried cock. 

“I…” Obi-Wan tries to say something, but it’s carried away on the eddies of climax. He drags Qui-Gon’s forehead against his, fingers splayed over a bearded cheek, and their hair and faces are slick from sweat, and the kiss is a searing brand on Qui-Gon.

_Yours._

Obi-Wan lifts off and then falls back onto Qui-Gon’s cock, setting a pace that overwhelms every nerve and just looking at Obi-Wan, pinned to the wall, open for him, is sending him careening over the edge. He gasps into Obi-Wan’s shoulder as the orgasm spreads, slow and meltingly _good_ , and Obi-Wan twines his arms around Qui-Gon’s neck, kissing him through streams of tears. 

“I’m sorry,” Qui-Gon says, their bodies still joined, “I...was afraid..But not of you. I should never have..” He swallows with a wet click, “I should never have sent you away, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan brushes aside a stray lock of hair from Qui-Gon’s forehead and smiles. “It’s alright.” Though exhausted, his eyes are tranquil as they have not been since before Naboo; Qui-Gon is reminded of a river at dusk. 

He slips out of Obi-Wan and sets him on his feet. Qui-Gon has not exerted himself in _quite_ this way for more years than he cares to count, and now that the frenzy is past, his joints ache and stiffen. He stretches his back, earns a satisfying pop. “That was—“

Obi-Wan tries to take a step towards the bedroom, instead his legs abruptly give out under him. He pitches forward on his hands. “Well—!”

Qui-Gon cannot help a bubble of laughter. “You make quite the sight.”

Obi-Wan rolls over to look up at Qui-Gon and crosses his arms. ” _You_ did this. The least you can do is help me to bed.” 

Simple words, but the meaning behind them stirs a pleasant ache in Qui-Gon’s chest: Obi-Wan is telling him he is staying tonight. It feels right. He has spent so many years sleeping with Obi-Wan nearby, close enough to sense his wakefulness or dreams. The nights of waiting have shown Qui-Gon he can sleep on his own—but he would rather not. “Some Knight. Collapsing under the slightest strain.” He quips, bending to help Obi-Wan sit up. 

Obi-Wan blows out a breath. Sweat still glistens on his skin, in his beard. “If I was to describe you, _slight_ would not be the term that came to mind.” 

Qui-Gon smirks. “Flattery won’t get you everywhere, but it _will_ get you to the shower.” He scoops Obi-Wan into his arms and stands. 

Obi-Wan utters a surprised cry. “Really, this isn’t necessary--”

“Oh, the shower is _completely_ necessary. Believe me.” 

Obi-Wan’s laughter is a balm, and the tension eases in Qui-Gon’s chest. _Peace_. Qui-Gon presses a kiss to his temple, moving through the dim apartment, Obi-Wan a grounding weight against him. 

Alive. Whole. Safe. 

_Yours._

__He kisses Obi-Wan again, kisses his hair and cheek and mouth, and he knows that he is completely lost._ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you to LuvEwan for all her betaing prowess!

Obi-Wan has never felt joy like this. His heart is aching with a kind of shining warmth that has him feeling like he’s going to spill over the edges of his skin and dissolve into the Force. 

_I’m sorry, I...was afraid..But not of you. I should never have sent you away, Obi-Wan._

Qui-Gon’s resistance is gone—he can feel it through their training bond, which thrums with happiness, wonder and something like adoration. His seasoned, steady mentor—lover—can scarcely believe that Obi-Wan is cradled against his broad chest, naked and limbs still tingling from an orgasm that _Qui-Gon_ gave him. Obi-Wan can scarcely believe it either, but the feel of Qui-Gon’s strong arms underneath his knees and against his back, the tickle of his chest hair, the sweet-sour smell of his skin _after_ leave no room for doubt.

His eyelids droop in exhaustion and yet he does not want to fall asleep. He wants to savour this moment, imprint it on his memory, to recall, to cherish, when—

He doesn't let himself finish the thought.

Qui-Gon places him on his feet in the tub, and he manages to stand for a few seconds before the world weaves out of focus. He puts a hand out to grip the tile, but he starts to slide anyway. Qui-Gon catches him under his arms with shout and lowers him into the tub.

“A bath, it seems, would be safer,” Qui-Gon says, with a soft chuckle.

Obi-Wan feels himself blush. “Apparently.” He leans back against the tub, while Qui-Gon finds the plug and starts the water running. The sound and warmth lull him to sleep for a few moments and when he wakes with a start, the bath is full and hot. A slight tingle tells him that Qui-Gon has added salt and eucalyptus oil. The scent is sharp and refreshing. He feels his senses start to come back online and smiles to himself: Qui-Gon always seems to find little ways to add comfort to the austerity of Jedi life. Flowering plants. Soft teal towels. Bath salts. Nothing technically extravagant, nothing he wouldn’t part with if asked to, or give away as a gift. Nothing the outside world would deem luxurious.

Soothing heat seeps into his muscles, and he shivers at the sensation of being enveloped, floating. He is _sore_ , inside and out, but he doesn't mind. How could he, when his heart is overflowing. He looks at Qui-Gon, moving around the bathroom, admires his long, powerful limbs, his wide shoulders and muscular chest, with a spray of dark chest hair. His face is simply the most beautiful sight Obi-Wan has ever seen. Noble features, bright eyes and a smile that emanates kindness, care, safety and other warmths he cannot yet name.

He decides this must be the opposite of a broken heart: not ‘unbroken’, but full, radiating. 

He wants to ask Qui-Gon why and how he changed his mind, longs to know about the agony of waiting for him, whether he imagined Obi-Wan touching him, like Obi-Wan imagined Qui-Gon. But the words won't come. He cannot risk shattering this moment, not when his heart is so full. 

Beside him, Qui-Gon kneels on the dark blue bath mat and hands him a bottle of soap and a white washcloth. For a moment, Obi-Wan stares numbly at the soap and cloth in his hand. He’s so tired, his brain can’t seem to process what to do with these simple familiar, objects in this anything-but-simple, entirely new situation. Qui-Gon has run him a bath before after hard missions, but he's never sat beside the tub half naked, with desire in his eyes. And Obi-Wan has never been aching in a blissful, deep way where Qui-Gon filled him minutes before.

“Join me?” he hears himself say, words tumbling from his lips before he can rethink them.

Surprise and delight flicker across Qui-Gon's features. His mouth quirks into the half-smile that has been melting Obi-Wan's heart for over a decade.

“Will I fit?” Qui-Gon asks, eyeing the bathtub with skepticism.

And the double meaning is too perfect, especially since Qui-Gon's tone is perfectly sincere. He bursts out laughing, to Qui-Gon's confusion. The other man blinks, and then chuckles as he catches on.

“We'll never know…. until we ….. try, will we, Master?” Obi-Wan sputters.

He slides forward in the tub as Qui-Gon rises and strips off his pants. Obi-Wan notes with satisfaction that the man is already half-hard again from being near a very naked and wet Obi-Wan. It takes a few minutes of shuffling and splashing, but eventually Obi-Wan is settled between Qui-Gon's legs and resting his hands atop Qui-Gon's knees that poke out of the water. He lets his head fall back against Qui-Gon's chest as his lover starts to wash his hair with careful, tender strokes.

“I dreamed of this,” Obi-Wan whispers.

“On the mission?” Qui-Gon rumbles, smoothing soap around Obi-Wan's right ear.

“Then too,” Obi-Wan admits. For years, he wants to say, but worries it will be too much.

“Mmmm.” A beat. “What was it like?”

“The mission? Long. Cold. Muddy… Lonely. The opposite of here.”

Qui-Gon sighs. “Sounds like early knighthood.” 

“I didn't expect—”

“The loneliness? Neither did I. But in my case it was a relief. Better to be lonely when you alone, than when you are not.” A hint of bitterness suffuses Qui-Gon's words. 

Obi-Wan shudders. Qui-Gon has rarely spoken of him, but he knows enough to know that it's Dooku he's alluding to. He hates to think of young Qui-Gon in that sterile, harsh atmosphere, with his cold, aloof master. There's so much feeling in Qui-Gon, so much warmth between them — and has been from the beginning. He wonders, not for the first time, how Qui-Gon endured Dooku's training. 

He hopes their years together have made up for some of the misery. He wants nothing more than to be with Qui-Gon and make him happy. He isn't shielding and he's fuzzy from exhaustion, so his thoughts leak into their training bond and he hears, feels Qui-Gon gasp behind him. 

“Oh, Obi-Wan, yes. You have healed my heart beyond measure,” Qui-Gon breathes. “And you cannot fathom the joy I feel with you.” His voice is cracking and Obi-Wan knows there are tears in his master's eyes. Tears well up in his own. He’s so happy it almost hurts and he wants to keep this feeling forever.

“I rather think I can,” Obi-Wan answers seriously. He rubs his hands up and down Qui-Gon's hairy shins and places a kiss on top of his left knee. 

Qui-Gon's arms encircle his chest and squeeze as he presses his lips to Obi-Wan's neck. His beard tickles and Obi-Wan can feel hot tears against his skin.

He twines his hands in Qui-Gon's and presses them against his heart.

_Love._

That is the only word that makes sense. And it is only a word, but he cannot say it, because it is a dangerous one.

Obi-Wan wants nothing more than to stay in this moment, this perfect moment where he can feel Qui-Gon's love and pour out his own, and feel the two waves meet and swirl together in the Force. He calls on the Living Force, clutches at it, feels it sliding out of reach. Stay _here_ , his heart orders, but his mind and the Unifying Force are like two matched magnets, drawn and drawing. He cannot resist. 

His heart sinks, and the pleasure and thrill of their reunion fade as the question he's been fighting surfaces: Force, what are they going to do? 

He kisses Qui-Gon's knuckles, still entwined with his. Qui-Gon has felt the turn in Obi-Wan's mood and the question has echoed through their bond. His lover sighs heavily behind him.

“We shall be patient,” Qui-Gon says softly, but Obi-Wan can hear the tremor in his voice.

Obi-Wan feels sparks of anger rising in his chest. He wants to say _I'm not your Padawan anymore. Don't give me that glib Master mask. Be real with me._ “You don't know,” he says instead.

Around him, Qui-Gon's whole body tenses and Obi-Wan can feel Qui-Gon's surprise and chagrin. This is new for them too: Obi-Wan can push back, assert himself, question and demand as an equal now. 

“I don't,” Qui-Gon admits. “I'm sorry. You are right. I cannot protect you in this, any more than I can protect myself.”

Despite the sarlacc pit of despair that's calling him, Obi-Wan feels relieved. “Whatever comes, we will face it together,” he says gravely.

A wave of gratitude and wonder ripples through their bond. “I am humbled by your wisdom, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon kisses the top of his head. “ Yes. In all things.”

“Facing the Council can't be worse than the Sith,” Obi-Wan jokes, desperate for more purchase in the downward slide into the pit that threatens.

Qui-Gon snorts. “Fewer pointy teeth at least—literally if not figuratively.”

Obi-Wan lets out a bark of laughter. “Mace, or Yoda?”

“Yaddle. And Yarael Poof.”

“Mmmmm. At least Master Mundi doesn't have a leg to stand on.”

“Thank the Force for small mercies.” Obi-Wan can practically hear Qui-Gon's eye roll.

Behind him, Qui-Gon sighs and pulls Obi-Wan impossibly closer, splays his long fingers against Obi-Wan's chest and smooths the muscles beneath. Obi-Wan tips his head back and brushes a kiss along the underside of Qui-Gon's chin, before turning his face into Qui-Gon's damp neck. They rest together for long moments, drifting in currents of bath water and silence. 

Another question tugs at his mind. “Is it wrong?” Obi-Wan murmurs sleepily.

A long breath. “Does it feel wrong?” Qui-Gon asks in reply.

“No,” Obi-Wan answers honestly. 

“Not to me, either.”

“But the Code?” He has to ask. They have to address it.

“Hmm….Yes?” Qui-Gon rumbles.

“Why is this,” he pauses, strokes his index finger down the centre of Qui-Gon’s chest, “forbidden, if the Force, the Light Side….”

Qui-Gon takes his hand before it can drift lower, brings it to his lips and kisses his fingers. “Approves?”

Obi-Wan dips into the Force and breathes. Qui-Gon is not _wrong_ , though it's hard to say with certainty that he's right. “Something like that.”

Qui-Gon shifts to one side, and Obi-Wan turns automatically to meet his eyes. He can see Qui-Gon is flushed, from the heat of the bath and Obi-Wan’s touch.

“You know how I feel about following the Force versus the Code, Obi-Wan. I have never hidden that from you,” he says solemnly. 

“I know,” Obi-Wan answers. He does. Better than most. He never thought he would be so glad of Qui-Gon’s rebellious tendencies, never thought he would agree with him like this. But he can feel the warm, settled, calm in the Force that does, indeed, feel like ‘approval.’

“You must make up your own mind on this, Obi-Wan. I cannot guide you.”

“I know,” he says again. He slides his palm along Qui-Gon's cheek. He smiles at Qui-Gon’s worried eyes. “I have,” he says, before kissing him, long and slow. 

Qui-Gon returns the kiss with gentle fervor and then breaks it with a breath and a hand on Obi-Wan’s chest. “I have never defied the Council or the Code so egregiously before. I cannot say what will happen if we are found out.”

Obi-Wan inhales and blinks his eyes closed and nods. He is afraid, not only of the consequences, but because he can feel Qui-Gon’s trepidation through their bond. He refuses to spoil their night with fear. He moves to kiss Qui-Gon again, but Qui-Gon stops him with his finger on Obi-Wan's lips, cups the side of his jaw and looks into his face searchingly. Obi-Wan can see uncertainty, concern in his lover's blue-grey eyes, and there is but a ghost of his earlier smile. 

Obi-Wan takes a long steadying breath and draws the Living Force into his veins. When he speaks, his voice does not tremble.

“Whatever comes, we will face it together.”


End file.
